Death Comes at Christmas, page 1
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction | Marie O’Regan and Paul Kane
How to Commit Murder in a Bookshop | C. L. Taylor
Christmas Yet To Come | Helen Fields
What She Left Me | Tina Baker
The Red Angel | Russ Thomas
O Murder Night | J. T. Ellison
Christmas Lights | David Bell
The Midnight Mass Murderer | Alexandra Benedict
The Wrong Party | Claire McGowan
Upon a Midnight Clear | Tom Mead
Last Christmas | Fiona Cummins
The Naughty List | Sam Carrington
Indian Winter | Vaseem Khan
Postmarked Murder | Susi Holliday
Frostbite | Samantha Hayes
A Deadly Gift | Angela Clarke
Secret Santa | Liz Mistry
Marley’s Ghost | Sarah Hilary
Icarus | Belinda Bauer
About the Authors
About the Editors
Acknowledgements
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Death Comes at Christmas
Hardback edition ISBN: 9781803369419
E-book edition ISBN: 9781803369433
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: October 2024
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
INTRODUCTION copyright © Marie O’Regan & Paul Kane 2024.
HOW TO COMMIT MURDER IN A BOOKSHOP copyright © C. L. Taylor 2024.
CHRISTMAS YET TO COME copyright © Helen Fields 2024.
WHAT SHE LEFT ME copyright © Tina Baker 2024.
THE RED ANGEL copyright © Russ Thomas 2024.
O MURDER NIGHT copyright © J. T. Ellison 2024.
CHRISTMAS LIGHTS copyright © David Bell 2024.
THE MIDNIGHT MASS MURDERER copyright © Alexandra Benedict 2024.
THE WRONG PARTY copyright © Claire McGowan 2024.
UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR copyright © Tom Mead 2024.
LAST CHRISTMAS copyright © Fiona Cummins 2024.
THE NAUGHTY LIST copyright © Sam Carrington 2024.
INDIAN WINTER copyright © Vaseem Khan 2024. Characters used with permission of Hodder & Stoughton.
POSTMARKED MURDER copyright © Susi Holliday 2024.
FROSTBITE copyright © Samantha Hayes 2024.
A DEADLY GIFT copyright © Angela Clarke 2024.
SECRET SANTA copyright © Liz Mistry 2024.
MARLEY’S GHOST copyright © Sarah Hilary 2024.
ICARUS copyright © Belinda Bauer 2011. Originally published in The Mirror newspaper. Reprinted by permission of the author.
The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
For our dear friend Christopher Fowler,
with much love.
INTRODUCTION
Marie O’Regan and Paul Kane
CHRISTMAS.
A time of loving and giving, of peace and harmony. Of goodwill towards all people… Or is it? There’s a very long tradition of crime stories being set during the festive period, highlighting the much darker side of this very special time of year.
Think back to that famous tale involving the world’s greatest consulting detective, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes: ‘The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle’ from 1892. A mystery involving a priceless jewel falling into the wrong hands that, whilst it doesn’t contain a murder as such, definitely involves a death – that of a Christmas goose! Then there’s Agatha Christie’s protagonist Hercule Poirot, set up to test his detective skills with a staged murder in ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’.
Everyone from Margery Allingham (‘The Case of the Man with the Sack’) to P. D. James (‘The Mistletoe Murder’), from Ian Rankin (‘Cinders’) and Val McDermid (‘A Traditional Christmas’) to Michael Connelly (‘Christmas Even’) and Mark Billingham (‘Underneath the Mistletoe Last Night’), has tried their hand at a seasonal crime scenario. Even the author who this book is dedicated to, Christopher Fowler, our dear friend who passed away in 2023, set tales involving his elderly detectives Bryant and May around this holiday period. And no wonder: it’s hugely popular!
So, when the idea for a Christmas crime anthology was first talked about, even though it was springtime and we were feeling anything but Christmassy, we jumped at the opportunity. The chance to put together a brand-new collection of mysteries under the banner of Death Comes at Christmas. Because, let’s face it, most crime fiction deals with death of some kind at some point or another, doesn’t it?
In the following pages you’ll find a raft of stories which tackle that topic head-on in various ways, written by the cream of crime fiction authors. C. L. Taylor (Every Move You Make) ponders how best to commit such a deed during a Christmas bookshop party, while Fiona Cummins (All of Us Are Broken) looks back at her titular ‘Last Christmas’ for clues as to how such a thing could happen. Authors who have a wealth of experience with Christmas crime fiction, Alexandra Benedict (The Christmas Jigsaw Murders) and Susi Holliday (The Party Season) offer us a unique Mass murderer and some deadly memories.
Creator of Joseph Spector Tom Mead (Cabaret Macabre), Helen Fields (Profile K) and J. T. Ellison (It’s One of Us) take us on a trip back in time for their own period Christmas tales. Tina Baker (What We Did in the Storm) and Liz Mistry (The Blood Promise) bring us back to the present with a jolt in their nail-biting entries, while Angela Clarke (Seven), Vaseem Khan (the Malabar House novels) and Sarah Hilary (Sharp Glass) focus on horrendous family gatherings to deliver their head-scratching puzzlers, and Claire McGowan (Let Me In) writes about the dangers of attending the annual office party. David Bell (Try Not to Breathe) gives us a poignant story about lost people and lost Christmases, Samantha Hayes (Mother of the Bride) raises the hairs on the back of your neck with a touch of ‘Frostbite’, Russ Thomas (Sleeping Dogs) draws on the culture of true crime podcasts for inspiration and Sam Carrington (The Girl in the Photo) tells us why you really don’t want to be on Santa’s Naughty List. Rounding off our assortment of tasty treats, Belinda Bauer (Exit) proves that you can pack an emotional punch with a short character study that will definitely stay with you long after Christmas.
Gather round your tree, sing your carols, hang your stockings, enjoy your mulled wine and turkey. But take our advice, whatever you do – watch your back this Christmas!
MARIE O’REGAN & PAUL KANE
MARCH 2024
HOW TO COMMIT MURDER IN A BOOKSHOP
AT LEAST one of you will die tonight!” Amy, dressed as an elf, complete with hat and bells attached to the laces of her Doc Martens, is standing on a stool in the centre of the bookshop. For the last five minutes she’s valiantly tried, and largely failed, to explain the rules of the murder mystery game to the attendant readers, authors, literary agents and publishing professionals who have gathered in Paper Palace – London’s largest, oldest and most established bookshop – for their annual Christmas party.
Eleanor, Amy’s colleague and lead bookseller, looks on sympathetically. Normally their Christmas parties are more of a drink-and-mingle affair, but this year Amy suggested that they play a game instead. Her thinking was, because no one ever really mingles outside of their groups, that it might be a good way of getting their guests to interact. Eleanor couldn’t help but agree. In her experience the lesser-known writers huddle together in corners, and the well-known authors attract readers like bees to honey – well, the confident ones anyway. Most readers are of a more nervous disposition and tend to avoid interaction completely, preferring the company and safety of the books. They’re Eleanor’s favourite kind of human and she loves watching the way they reverentially drift from bookshelf to bookshelf, occasionally pausing to softly stroke a spine or carefully remove a novel from its resting place before they lovingly turn it over in their hands.
Publishing professionals are a different species. To Eleanor, who’s in her early fifties, they all look so impossibly young, thin and fresh-faced. They’re the newest recruits of course – overworked and underpaid but huge fans of literature, still so excited to acquire, market or publicise novels they love and launch them, with fanfare, out into the world. There aren’t many publishing employees that are the same age as Eleanor but those she can see have the same weary air of cynicism. They have survived the industry, possibly brought up children too, carried the weight of household tasks, and now they’re too exhausted to do anything else. There are a lot of agents in this group too. In contrast, the sales guys (both male and female) exude a confidence and bonhomie that she only wishes she had. Their laughter rings throughout the bookshop like chiming (sales) bells as they knock back the wine that the bookshop provided. Unlike their colleagues, they’ve dressed for the season in Christmas jumpers, headbands and ties.
The reaction to Amy’s murder mystery game is, understandably, mixed. The readers look horrified, the authors apprehensive and the publishing professionals and agents simply look resigned. Only Amy, the two well-known authors and the sales guys are excited about donning different personas and playing the game.
“Hello, Eleanor.” A tall grey-haired man with a ruddy complexion, generous nose and an air of dishevelment touches her on the elbow, making her jump.
“Martin, hi!” There’s genuine delight in her voice, tinged with a hint of apprehension. Back in the day – the mid-eighties to mid-nineties to be precise – Martin Rothschild was a huge name in crime fiction, up there with Elmore Leonard, Tom Clancy and Jeffrey Archer. He’s fallen out of favour since then – his blend of cynical private investigators, femmes fatales and hard-boiled storylines are no longer fashionable. While the supermarkets and Waterstones no longer stock his book, Paper Palace and a handful of other independent bookshops still place small but regular orders to cater to his diminishing band of loyal but ageing fans. Three of them were supposed to attend the party but cancelled at the last minute, citing illness, family emergencies and, in Cecile Hampton’s case, “an unfortunate reaction to an overly ripe Camembert cheese”. Eleanor didn’t ask for details.
“Christmas present for you.” Martin thrusts a beautifully wrapped parcel into her hands. She can tell immediately by its shape and weight that it’s a book.
“My latest hardback,” he says. “My last one.”
Before Eleanor can express her dismay, he adds, “It’s my own creation, in every way. I had it printed myself, commissioned a small run. I ensured it’s made of the very best quality paper with vibrant endpapers, sprayed edges, a ribbon – the works. I think that, if you’re going to bow out of publishing, you should do it in style. It’s a Yuletide tale, by the way.”
She turns the parcel over in her hands, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Martin, this means a lot.”
Rather than respond, he gives a pursed-lipped nod then heads back into the fray, a weighty-looking plastic bag hanging from the crook of his arm.
“So those are the rules to the game!” Amy announces from across the room. Her elf hat has slipped so far back on her head that it looks like it’s trying to make its escape. “If everyone could please take a card from the table – don’t show them to each other please! – they’ll tell you all you need to know about your character, and whether you’re the murderer or not. To the victim, make sure you die in style!”
There’s a chorus of laughter, then the assembled guests drift towards the table, some more keen than others. Eleanor searches the crowd for Martin, but he appears to have disappeared, or else he’s hiding out of sight. She can’t help but feel sorry for him. After such a long career it feels wrong that he should have to self-publish his last book. Not that there’s anything wrong with self-publishing – she stocks several local self-published authors – but Martin Rothschild should have bowed out with aplomb during a celebration thrown by his publisher, given some kind of award, and maybe a re-jacketed anniversary edition of his most famous book. To end his career in such a quiet way makes her feel sad.
* * *
Forty-five minutes have passed since Amy invited the guests to select their characters, and the murder mystery game has descended into chaos. Almost everyone’s drunk, someone switched the festive tunes for Rage Against the Machine (which meant she had to run to turn it off before the lead singer reached the sweary chorus), and one of the literary agents, who was walking backwards to try and widen the gap between her and an aspiring author, tripped over the game’s ‘victim’, who had just that moment decided to lie on the floor and act dead. The glass of red wine the agent had been holding went flying and soaked an editorial assistant’s white dress. For the next fifteen minutes, everyone who hadn’t witnessed the incident approached the poor woman and questioned why she was walking around if she was a victim who’d been stabbed to death.
A handful of readers are still playing the game, tentatively approaching people with a notebook and pen in their hands. In contrast, the sales team are charging around the room demanding that a certain character ‘fess up’, promising books and freebies if they tell them the truth. Of the other publishing professionals, the senior editors are surreptitiously checking their watches, the agents are mingling, and the marketing and publicity girls are chatting about how much their contemporaries earn and how long they have to sit it out in their current roles before they can move on. Meanwhile, the authors are either wandering around aimlessly, talking to their agents or gossiping in small groups. The two high-profile authors, who’ve resolutely ignored each other all evening, have somehow been drawn together and are arguing loudly about the latest divisive scandal that’s hit the publishing world. As for the readers and book club members, all but a handful have slipped out of the front door and disappeared into the night. Eleanor’s been scurrying around all evening, mopping up wine spillages, rescuing book tables from being knocked over, and trying to stop random passers-by from wandering inside whenever one of her guests leaves or goes outside for a smoke.
“If everyone could gather round please!” Amy’s back on her stool, her hat abandoned, her cheeks flushed with stress. “That’s the end of the interrogation part of the game. If you could all please take a slip of paper from the table and write down who you think the murderer was, and what their motive might have been. When you’ve written it down, please fold the piece of paper in half and drop it into the Santa hat. There’s a bottle of champagne for the winner!” She waves it desperately above her head. “You’ve got five minutes to submit your answers. Just five minutes please!” From her raised vantage point she searches the crowd until her gaze falls on Eleanor. Her expression is pure Please God, let this end!
Eleanor shoots her a sympathetic glance then continues ringing in the last few alcohol-fuelled purchases through the till. When she looks up again, five minutes later, she spots guests pulling on their coats as Amy sorts through the guesses in the hat. She exhales softly. It’s nearly over, the party’s winding down. Movement in the corner of her eye makes her turn her head. Bill, one of only a handful of remaining book club members, is weaving his way through the shop carrying a tin of something in his hands. It’s mince pies, she realises, as he offers one to an author, then an agent, then a sales guy. Unusual, she’s never had him down as a Great British Bake Off type of man. Whatever his baking skills, he definitely seems to be avoiding his fellow readers. Each time they reach for the tin he swerves away. That’s not very Christian of the Reverend Bill Brown.
